


Spice Tea

by Kryptodrakon



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, Non-graphic Descriptions of Battle, war memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 05:48:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12977367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptodrakon/pseuds/Kryptodrakon
Summary: The most wonderful time of the year hasn't always been wonderful. More or less an excuse for a little Christmastime hurt/comfort/fluff.





	Spice Tea

**Author's Note:**

> I'll save the really long note for the end. Per usual, I'm posting this at 4am without a beta, so any mistakes are my own. Someone slap me for waiting so long to get into this show though, for real.
> 
>  (Update: LOL I'm already rewriting this stay tuned)
> 
> Enjoy!

  
  


She’d been waiting for it all night, so when Daniel excused himself from the dinner table she nudged Jarvis before he had his mouth fully open to ask about dessert, held a cautionary finger to her lips, and watched him limp around the corner out of sight. As soon as he was out of earshot, Jarvis looked quizzically at her. “Is he alright?” 

 

Ana looked properly concerned. “Is he coming down with something? He's been quiet all day. Perhaps I should make him some soup. He might need extra blankets.”

 

“I’ll put the kettle on for some tea, shall I?” Jarvis was already moving, unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling the cuffs as he headed into the kitchen. “I acquired more of that spiced blend Chief Sousa seems to favor.” 

 

Peggy smiled fondly. “Mother hens, the pair of you. Hold on a moment.” They both stopped to look at her, and she thought a moment about how much to tell them, how much it would take to convince them that all he really needed was some solitude, and then maybe an ear and a little understanding. “Daniel isn’t ill. This is… a difficult time of year for him, that’s all.”

 

“I think his leg may be bothering him,” Ana observed. 

 

“I have some suspicions about that myself, but I think what he needs right now is some quiet.” Both Jarvises relented without much of a fuss, but seemed slightly crestfallen, so she amended, “I do think he could benefit from a good cup of tea, however, if you two don’t mind helping me prepare it.”

 

Half an hour later, Peggy was standing in front of Daniel’s guest room door in Stark mansion, bearing a tray with two cups of spice tea, a creamer, sugar bowl, a small crystal bottle of brandy, and a ridiculously oversized plate of Christmas cookies in lieu of the apple pie that Edwin had baked for dessert. She didn’t bother knocking; he would have heard the tray and her low heels clattering from down the hall. The room was mostly dark, save the weak moonlight struggling through the clouds and the dim cast of a single candle on the table inside the door. Shutting the door softly behind her, she crossed to the armchair by the window and set the tray on the low ottoman beside it. Daniel was slouched in the chair, gaze fixed out the window, picking at the blanket in his lap with one hand and carefully kneading the stump of his leg with the other. She noticed the prosthetic lying near the bed, as if it had been hastily leaned up against the wall and fallen over, and the second crutch stacked atop the first on the floor next to armchair.

 

There was no second chair and the tea tray occupied the ottoman, so Peggy toed out of her shoes and sat down on the rug in front of him. The spicy aroma of the tea warmed the atmosphere of the room as it steeped. She heard Daniel sniff, and his grunt of approval made the corner of her mouth twitch while she stirred milk into her teacup and left it to him to decide if he wanted to speak. 

  
  


“I’m sorry,” he whispered after a moment. His tone was sheepish, with the expression to match, and lord above did he look like anything as much as a lost puppy when he glanced up through his lashes like that. 

 

“You’ve nothing to apologize for, Daniel.” 

 

“I’m not trying to be a stick in the mud or anything.” 

 

He seemed worried he’d somehow ruined the festivities, and Peggy cast about for a way to reassure him. “Ana thought you might not feel well. She wanted to send me with enough extra blankets to cover the whole of Los Angeles. Honest, Daniel, you haven’t ruined anything for want of a quiet moment. We’re all a little worried about you, that’s all.”

 

Sousa sighed. “I guess… I had a dream, last night, and it brought up some things I thought…” His voice died, his mouth screwed up into a frown. It was a look she’d seen before, and not just from him. It was the same look Jack had fixed her with when he’d told her about burying the flag. It was the same one the Commandos wore sometimes, the same one she saw in the mirror on occasion, less so now than fresh off the front but more often than she cared to consider. It was the look men who’d lived through hell wore when they weren’t sure if they wanted to share that hell with someone else, as if keeping it to themselves could somehow keep it from being real.

 

“Sometimes,” Peggy murmured, “sometimes the war still sneaks up on me. I saw things, horrific things, and just when I think I’ve processed them, something will remind me that I’ve barely begun.” 

 

The way his mouth thinned was telling. “Something like that,” he replied quietly. “I guess three years isn’t long enough for some things to heal.” 

 

“Some likely never will. We all lost things in the war. Some of us more than others. That takes time, to come to terms with. There’s no shame in it.” She scooted closer to him, sat up on her heels and took the hand that had been working at unraveling the blanket, lacing her fingers between his and squeezing lightly in what she hoped was a reassuring gesture. He flinched when her wrist brushed against his stump, but didn't pull away. “You don't have to tell me,” she said, “but I am willing to listen.” 

  
  


Daniel considered for a moment, so long she feared he was going to refuse to talk to her, then straightened his back, like he was steeling himself to deliver a report. “You know from my file that I was in Belgium in the winter of ‘44.”

 

She knew, though not from his file. Instead of correcting him she simply nodded. Daniel kept the more horrifying recountings of his experience in the war close to the vest, not unlike her. She supposed they were both used to keeping secrets and telling half-truths; it bled into other areas outside of the work they did, almost without their notice. That he was willing to talk to her, to divulge something deeply personal, spoke volumes about how far they’d come in trusting one another in the few months they’d been together. That she already knew some of the story didn’t matter.

 

“A lot of Bastogne is hazy,” he admitted, turning to look out the window again. “We were in Kohlschied, on reserve after months of fighting, when we got orders to divert through Aachen and help hold Bastogne. It was an afterthought of a town, really, but all major thoroughfares went through it, so it had a strategic advantage.”

 

“Control the roads, control the supply lines,” Peggy mused, and he nodded. 

 

“No one really expected that kind of pushback, especially not in the Ardennes, so they weren't prepared for it. We had to move fast, and went in blind because the weather had grounded air surveillance and communications were patchy, and usually any intelligence we got was already several hours old. We made it as far as Houffalize before they’d blocked the road, so we diverted around the roadblock through La Roche, fought our way through, and got to Bastogne just in time to be surrounded.”

 

“Their tactic from the get go was concentrated attacks in sequence. They destroyed the aid station, killed 20 people and captured the rest. One of the SSR guys had some basic medical training, so he set up a makeshift triage clinic in one of the houses further in. But they couldn’t do much; all we really had in any abundance was iodine, and no chance of resupply until the weather cleared. A lot of the injured went back out, said as long as they could hold a rifle they could hold the line.” His hand twitched in hers, like he wanted to go back to rubbing his leg. She tightened her fingers reassuringly, and he took a deep breath, letting it out between his teeth. “ If the Germans had all stayed they would have crushed us like a tidal wave. Even when the main force peeled off to head for the river crossing they left 3 entire divisions behind, including supplementary Hydra forces, and they just kept probing the perimeter looking for weak spots. We had 36 Hellcats, a compliment of Sherman tanks in less than stellar condition, a handful of M8 armored cars, and that was it, so those guys would run from front to front as needed, and the recon platoons would go first to look for mines and traps and then set our own. One time I just wasn’t fast enough hitting the ground when they started shooting. The bullet must have skimmed a tree before it hit me; they told me the spin saved my life, but cost me my leg. The damage to the bone was too severe to repair it, but somehow it missed the femoral artery, or else I'd have been a goner.” 

 

“And that’s when things get hazy?” she asked him, and he nodded. Small wonder. A bullet wound and a shattered femur would be excruciating.

 

“They did what they could, packed it and strapped it between two broken fence posts, and then I asked to go back out to the line. Agent Tindel threw a fit, but my commander relented when I told him I didn’t want to lie around waiting to die knowing I hadn’t done my part. We were in radio contact, we knew there was a relief force coming, but they kept getting delayed, and my injury was severe. So they got a couple of guys from the 101st to carry me out and dig me a slit trench, and that’s where I stayed until the siege broke. The weather cleared on the 24th and they air dropped supplies, and Tindel came round with morphine and penicillin. By then my leg was infected, and I was half out of my mind. I told him I wanted dry socks, and to just throw some dirt in the trench once I died, not to bother trying to dig anything deeper because the ground was frozen.” His smile had no humor to it, only the memory of bleak resignation and it made Peggy shudder to see how close he'd come to giving up. “They attacked us again on Christmas Day. Reports claim it wasn’t bigger than company size, but it felt like it went on for hours. The shooting, and the planes firebombing the German lines. I don’t remember the fighting, not clearly, but I remember the smell.”

 

Daniel’s voice cracked and he looked down at his lap, taking a shuddering breath. Peggy drew herself closer, gently took him by the chin and forced him to meet her gaze, trying to convey every fiber of understanding and empathy she had through a look, silently offering her support until he swallowed and nodded, and she let go of his chin but returned her hand to the stump of his leg above the blanket. This time he didn’t flinch.

 

“Day after Christmas,” he said finally, his voice thick but even once more, “Captain America himself waltzed into camp, with the Howling Commandos and half the 4th Armored Division behind him, and announced the siege was broken, we were being relieved. And suddenly it felt like my arms were lead, and I couldn’t hold the rifle anymore so I dropped it, and he spotted me. And Steve frigging Rogers crouched in front of this hole I’d decided was going to be my grave, and he set aside his shield and put his hand on my shoulder and said I did a good job, but it was time to let someone else take the baton and run with it.” 

 

“That sounds like him,” she said mistily. She could picture it perfectly, his earnest blue eyes and the strikingly kind set of his face as he offered the only comfort he could to a war-weary soldier pushed far beyond his limits. 

 

“Things got really spotty after that,” Daniel said. “It's like my body was waiting for permission to quit, I was in and out between the morphine and the infection and blood loss, but I remember later, when they’d taken me back to the house to wait for transport out, I saw someone walking among the wounded and offering water or food or words of encouragement and a smile, and Agent Tindel leaned over and told me that was Agent Margaret Carter of the SSR, who had just fought through a German siege with the 107th.” 

 

“So you do remember.” Peggy pressed a warm mug of tea into his hands, dropped in two sugars and a dash of cream, the way he usually liked it. 

 

“How do you think you ended up on that pedestal?” he asked her gently. 

 

She flinched inwardly, remembering the acerbic way she’d said the words to him that day in the interrogation room. “I never apologized for that.”

 

“Nah, in the one that should be sorry. I was so worried about defending you that I did the same thing everyone else did. I underestimated you, forgot that you were a strong, capable person in your own right. I was undermining you. You had every right to be angry at me for it.”  

 

She wanted to tell him not to apologize, that she’d long since forgiven him. Instead she smiled and wrapped her hands around his where they held the teacup. “Just don’t you forget again,” she said warmly. 

 

Daniel chuckled. “Yes ma’am.”

 

The clouds finally broke open, and rain pattered softly against the window, lulling them both into silence for a time as they sipped their tea. “You said you had a dream, that brought this back,” Peggy finally murmured in the dark. She hadn't realized the candle had gone out. 

 

“In the dream, no one comes. The fighting just keeps going, until everyone on both sides is dead and it’s only me, and there’s no one left to throw the dirt on my grave.”

 

“Oh Daniel.” She took his tea gently, setting it aside on the tray where it wouldn’t spill, and sat on the arm of the chair, pulling him sideways until his face rested against her stomach. He wrapped his arms around her waist and closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her perfume while she stroked his hair. After a while she began humming absently, the way her brother had done when she was little and in need of comfort after a row with their mother over her ill manners. He recognized the tune and smiled against her belly. “Praise the Lord and Pass The Ammunition, huh?” 

 

“It was all that came to mind. Shut up and let me comfort you.” 

 

***

 

By the time they emerged from Daniel’s room, the Jarvises had long since retired to bed and the clock read ten after midnight. “I think we missed Benny Goodman,” Peggy deadpanned, and Daniel laughed as he navigated the drawing room on two crutches and followed her into the kitchen. 

 

True to form, Jarvis had left two slices of apple pie on small plates on the counter with a note about where to find the whipped cream. Therein followed a brief debate about whether it was advisable to eat pie after having already eaten so many cookies, which ended in eating the pie because to hell with it, it was Christmas. They cleaned up the dishes as quietly as they could, Daniel balanced with his hips pressed against the edge of the sink while he washed, and Peggy drying and replacing the dishes in their cabinets and drawers. By the time they’d finished Daniel was flagging from balancing so long on one leg and the emotional drain from their earlier conversation, and Peggy declared it time for bed and followed him as they shut off the lights and headed back to the wing of guest rooms. At his door, Daniel turned to her looking apprehensive. “Listen, I was wondering if...I wanted to… I know it’s not… it’s  _ frowned upon,  _ or…”

 

“Oh for heaven’s sake Daniel.” 

 

He laughed a little nervously and pulled at his collar. “I uh… don’t really want to be alone.” The sheepish look was back. They had, of course, discussed the idea of intimacy. While it wasn't uncommon for couples in this day and age, Daniel seemed to have some minor hang ups about propriety in that department. Peggy wanted to playfully remind him that Ana had implied the Jarvises already suspected them, but any teasing response died on her tongue, because underneath his discomfort at asking her to do something others might consider improper, he truly looked afraid of the idea of being left alone with just his memories for company. 

 

“I’ll be just a moment,” she told him, and reached past him to open the door, letting her fingers linger on his arm for a moment with a reassuring squeeze before hurrying to her own room to get herself ready for bed. 

 

Peggy made quick work of pinning her hair up for the next day, brushed her teeth, donned a nightgown and grabbed an extra pillow as she headed back to Daniel’s room, knocking softly on the frame before swinging open the door again. 

 

He’d righted the prosthetic and leaned the crutches up beside it, within easy reach but out of the way so no one tripped over them. Instead of pajamas he sat in just an undershirt and shorts on the edge of the bed, pinning an elastic bandage where he’d just finished wrapping his stump.

 

“Is it troubling you?” she asked him quietly, still standing just inside the door. 

 

“Not really. It always aches a little when the weather’s wet, that’s all.” It was as much as he’d ever admitted. Seemed the night was going to carry a lot of firsts. “You gonna stand there all night?” he teased. 

 

She grinned and threw her pillow, startling a laugh from him. The sound warmed her to her toes. 

 

They settled into bed, Sousa swinging his good leg up and under the covers, holding them up so she could scoot in close and then wriggling down to lay his ear against her stomach again and wrap his arms around her waist. He smelled vaguely of pine-scented soap and aftershave and a whiff of the spice tea from before, so quintessentially Daniel that it made her smile. She threaded her fingers gently through his hair, let the repetitive motion soothe her until her eyes were heavy.

 

“Peg?” 

 

“Mmm?” 

 

“Thank you.” His voice was soft, somewhat slurred with the beginnings of sleep. 

 

“Always,” she whispered back. “Now go to sleep.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Quick note: Apparently there was a big premarital sex boom starting in the 40's, which makes sense coming out of a depression and a world war I guess, but I can imagine Daniel having lingering issues with the idea of soiling anyone's virtue, especially the way he reacts to people joking about it on the show. That's just my thing, and it more than likely won't stay a thing if I keep writing about these two, but nobody by any means has to agree with me on any of it. 
> 
> I did not have a beta for this story. I did have an enthusiastic friend who begged me to post it EVEN THOUGH I just rewatched season 2 and had previously totally missed when Daniel says he wasn't part of an artillery division. This story almost got scrapped, but I was convinced to post it in all its unfinished hot mess of glory. 
> 
> In case anyone was wondering, I stuck Daniel in the 705th, which was a tank destroyer battalion with an attached recon company. They were on reserve at Kohlschied when the Ardennes offensive kicked off and were tasked with a hella fast march to Bastogne to give anti-tank support to the 101st. 
> 
> So, this story doesn't exactly match up with canon, but I'm posting it anyway because I promised a friend and because I have an updated, much longer and more detailed account of Daniel's experience during the siege of Bastogne in the works, but I also have a 0% record of ever finishing anything multi chapter if I start posting before it's finished, so I have no idea how long it'll be before that starts to go up. 
> 
> The iodine detail was taken from a recorded interview regarding the shortage of, well, everything. Because of the consistently bad weather, and then the Germans cutting all the highways into the area, there weren't enough blankets, dry socks, medical supplies or even c-rations to go around. The gentleman interviewed had taken a bullet clean through his shin, and said all they could do was shoot iodine into the open wound, and that it hurt worse than getting shot in the first place. Whether it's realistic that they would have let Daniel go back out to fight that severely injured I don't know, but it's documented that a good number of injured men did go back out to fight with some pretty nasty wounds, just because they didn't have much of a choice.


End file.
